September the First
by UndeniablyMe
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was probably the most miserable sod on the whole platform, if not the entire Kings Cross Station. (Or, the time Sherlock Holmes almost didn't wear pants.)


_The morning Sherlock Holmes almost didn't wear pants._

Sherlock Holmes was probably the most miserable sod on the whole platform, if not the entire Kings Cross Station.

Around him, there was a cacophony of owls hooting and cats yowling combined with the less attractive mewls of jealous younger siblings and raucous laughter of older students. And, as usually happened, all the information filtering in to Sherlock's mind led to an overwhelming headache and an even worse mood, thus leading to the need to reiterate: Sherlock Holmes was one miserable sod.

If he'd had his way, he wouldn't have been anywhere near the blasted train station in the first place and he wouldn't have a headache.

(He probably still would have been _in a mood_, however. Sometimes, those just couldn't be helped.)

Very rarely did Sherlock not get his way. He was a boy of only eleven, but he could admit without compunction that he was a remarkable eleven year old. He was captain of a vast intelligence, equipped with a mind that raced miles ahead of the brightest minds of his age. Manipulation of those around him, especially those who were not expecting the machinations of a scrawny raven-haired boy, were pathetically simple.

And yet, despite all this, Sherlock Holmes still had to attend school like a normal, ordinary person.

It was humiliating, insulting even. He was going to spend the next seven years corralled with the vapid and idiotic minds that made up his age group, and this despite the fact that at eleven he could probably pass the theoretical part of any NEWT exams.

(Performing the actual magic was not the important part, despite what Mycroft argued. The logic behind it was. It didn't matter that his body was not capable of that level of magic, his mind was. The body was just transport.)

Thus, Sherlock Holmes was not amused and, at eleven, still not above pitching an enormous tantrum at his brother for forcing him.

Mycroft Holmes was thirteen years older than Sherlock and not opposed to playing both a smothering mummy and hard-nosed daddy to his spoiled genius of a brother. He would be going to school, whether he wanted to or not. It would be good for the younger Holmes boy to interact with children his age for a change, instead of barricading himself in the library or his newly converted laboratory. Mycroft worried about his brother constantly. The boy was a genius, undoubtedly, but his social skills needed work. The seven years of schooling was more to force him out into the world than an attempt to have him learn anything academically.

Despite what the young intellect claimed, he was starved for companionship. If nothing else, school could offer him that.

And yet, Sherlock did not want to go. He'd employed every ploy and twitched every thread he knew in an attempt to get out of attending school, yet nothing worked. Mycroft was more set on this than he had been on anything else. Sherlock and his vast intelligence would go to school, and nothing he did would get him out of it.

If Sherlock Holmes was blindingly brilliant in his use of intelligence, Mycroft Holmes was decidedly devious. Very rarely did Sherlock win against his older brother.

But if he did, they were always the times that really counted anyway.

(This was not one of those times.)

The morning of September 1st had started out with a lecture from Mycroft, but that was far from abnormal. Mycroft had a repertoire of speeches that he pulled on special occasions or whenever Sherlock was being incredibly difficult. They mostly centered on having pride in the illustrious family name and comporting oneself befittingly, given in the most hoity-toity of voices he could muster. However, on this particular morning there was a carefully controlled note of hysteria in Mycroft's voice, one that Sherlock could trace right back to the source.

Mycroft was nearly completely undone because Sherlock refused to put on his clothes, a refusal that Sherlock had not made since he was at least three years old.

(He'd been a right pain in the arse then, too. Cuter, maybe, and a little more obvious, but still just as manipulative.)

"Sherlock Holmes! You are enrolled at the most elite and prized school in land. More importantly, you are a Holmes and all Holmes children go to school. Now for Godric's sake—_put your trousers on!_"

There hadn't been the dreaded middle name involved, which meant that for the moment Mycroft's reservoir of patience ran a bit deeper than he was willing to betray. Sherlock estimated about five more minutes before he was forcibly removed from his bed.

"So we're just ignoring Cousin Rotheldea who's a squib, are we?" Sherlock buried deeper into his bedclothes. "She didn't go to school."

The conversation only went downhill from there.

Sherlock had miscalculated. He'd only had three and a half minutes before Mycroft snapped and his bed evicted him, trouserless and all.

Which was fine by him. The body was just transport. Why should he care if he clothed it or not?

If Sherlock had had his way, he would have shown up on the platform in nothing but a bed sheet. And Mycroft would have let him, perhaps even have done him the favor of sticking it to his undeserving arse with a permanent sticking charm.

Luckily, Cousin Anthea arrived at that precise moment and was also less-than-amused to be kept waiting for a sulky eleven year old who wasn't properly dressed.

(It's a dangerous thing, a Holmes being not-amused.)

Though Mycroft would never stoop so low as to actually following through with anything that would do his little brother harm—those five times (okay, seven, if you included that unintentional burning hex and accidental rash charm) had been unintentional, he swore to Merlin—Anthea Holmes was not above physical violence. The fact that she had just turned seventeen and could use magic legally, added to Sherlock's unpleasant memories of her proven adeptness with itching jinxes, made up his mind quickly. He would put his trousers on so that, later on, he would not find himself itching with reckless abandonment in public like some common English bum. He was a Holmes and, thus, he had his pride.

But if they thought he wasn't going to raise hell as he went about it, well, they were just stupid; and a Holmes is never stupid—dangerous, bored, and sometimes angry, but never, _ever, _stupid.

Today, this morning of September the first, Sherlock Holmes was going to Hogwarts.

And he couldn't be more miserable.

* * *

**A/n: **I feel like I should be on one of those infomercials for Life Alert or something, except I'd be saying, "Help! I've been overcome by BBC feels and I can't get up!" _(Doctor Who. Sherlock. Is pain always this exquisite?)_

So, how exactly to explain this piece. Well... I can't. Not really. I'm back to writing seriously on my novels after taking a near two year break from it _(hello college, is that you again, mucking up my life plans?)_, which means that when the characters aren't playing nice with me _(re: all the time)_, I'm here blowing steam.

Steam that happens to turn into Sherlock Holmes/Harry Potter crossovers.

_(Help, I've Potter!locked and I can't get up!)_

There's the possibility of two more companion chapters with this piece centered around John Watson and Molly Hooper. If you're interested, let me know.

Or wait for me to be frustrated by my novelistic attempts. I promise, it won't take long.


End file.
